


Sticky Situation

by colisahotnorthernmess



Category: Gladiators (UK TV), Real Person Fiction
Genre: Ficlet, Flirting, Innuendo, M/M, Pugil Sticks, mentoring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 07:34:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14828108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colisahotnorthernmess/pseuds/colisahotnorthernmess
Summary: Retro tongue-in-cheek slash ficlet for the 1990's Saturday night UK gameshow Gladiators. When the producers first put Trojan on the Duel game, he seems to struggle and he just keeps losing and/or falling off. Whilst training alone he bumps into the great Shadow and gets some much needed, yet sexy, advice.





	Sticky Situation

**Author's Note:**

> Old fic. Posted in 2008 to Livejournal.

Unconvincingly balanced with his large, white-booted feet unlevelled on the edge like a seesaw, and letting the bevelled shoulders on the Duel platform be the fulcrum - he simply _slipped off._ He hadn't been fighting an opponent; merely practising for the next one to come. And, with _this_ record, he'd lose again, letting down the entire team. He couldn't help but wonder _why_ they'd picked him, with such stalwarts of the game as Wolf and Saracen still able. Fair enough, he was amongst the biggest of the Gladiators. But this was a fine art and, at _that_ , one which he hadn't yet learnt to paint.

"Shoot," he spoke softly, dropping to the floor. The _moment_ is a scientific term used to describe the turning point on a pivot - the _moment_ between being _up there_ and miserably ending up _down here_ seemed to take forever. Time flies when you're having fun, but failure merely elongates the day. Trojan hit the crash-mats with force and, regardless of how _ever_ much he prepared himself, it hurt more and more for every go. It hurt his sense of pride too, with splayed limbs and crest-fallen heart. "I just can't do it," he cried, "What's wrong with me?" Kicking the plastic matting, he sighed, "They'll _never_ have me back for another series!" Though was he _alone_ in his thoughts?

"Don't feel like that," a surprising, well-spoken voice came from nowhere. Trojan couldn't see anyone, still. Maybe that was because he was lurking in... the _shadows._  
  
"You'll never get anywhere with that attitude," it lectured him, and - _hey_ \- it was _right_. Like any good Glad, Trojan picked himself up, dusted down and, unlike the others, donned his cool trademark sunglasses. But for _what?_ To stop his now-revealed friend from _seeing_ the real him; the stadium was reflected in his aviators, masking his eyes and, therefore, hiding his true emotions. However, it could easily be seen that he was obviously rather glum.

"I'm so sick of losing," he growled. Not only  _sick_ , but also _exhausted_ \- the event was tricky, but the climb to and fro was earth-shattering - especially given how _often_ he'd had to do it. The two contenders had beaten him only hours prior and even swinging his pugil stick around at thin air had proved too much for him. He didn't want to be negative but, _no_ , this was a hell of a problem. Every Gladiator was expected to be a jack of all trades, and master of two or possibly three. "It's alright for you - you're the best," he bowed his head.

Shadow, who remained undefeated in this category, _knew_ this and said, "It's _all_ in the mind, Mark... You must understand..." Without saying another word, he began to scale the ladder against the side of the podium, in hope of retrieving his weapon which sat at the top - the giant cotton bud.  
  
Retrieving the pugil stick with a swift grab, _here_ was a man who _knew_ how to handle it well. He dismounted gracefully, rather than taking the stairs, and landed in the cushions alongside his now eager trainee. They both decided to sit for this serious conversation.

"Listen - because I'm going to tell you the _secret_ of scrapping with these," he signalled towards the stick. "Tell me, can you fight with your fists? Been taught hand-to-hand?" he asked Trojan, taking a hold of the other man's hand and stroking it with his thumb. The boy couldn't understand what was happening at this point but, nonetheless, he nodded.

"Okay," teacher continued, "So you'll be _used_ to doing that... The _key_ is to make this an _extension_ of your own body... _Be_ the pugil stick, Mark.' And that he was _being_. Being _someone_ who wanted to show his friend a thing or two about being _more_ than a good fighter - Shadow wanted to show Trojan how interested he was in teaching him _other_ things, like how to be a good _lover._

Shadow smiled at Trojan as he stroked the cold hard shaft of his pugil so _alluringly_ that there was not a single _doubt_ about what he implied. "Imagine it's _yours'_ we're touching," he groaned, the soft padded end between his legs and his hands up and down its length in smooth, vertical movements. He licked his sweaty, post-training fingers and ran them along the metal pole with a squeak. And his huge saucers for eyes rolled into the back of his head in a frenzy of arousal and deep concentration. "You'll almost forget you've got it," he whispered, sensually.

Trojan removed his protective helmet, his hair perfect, and the famous spit curl looking sharp. 'I'll give you one thing, Jefferson," he said with a wink, placing the helmet over his now bulging crotch, "I already _have_ forgotten about it... I guess you just _explain_ things so _clearly_."


End file.
